


It's just good business

by seven7stars



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Office Sex, Pining, Smut, adequate business negotiations, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seven7stars/pseuds/seven7stars
Summary: The fan overhead is still spinning. The computer hushes itself to a hum. The light left in the room dims as somewhere, on the floors below, someone flicks the switch on their way out into the night.Breathe, he thinks.We’re alone, finally. In, out, then in again.(Damen's trying to negotiate a deal, though things seem to be happening on Laurent's terms...)
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 107





	It's just good business

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my first capri fic, I wrote it a while ago and I hope you like it. The title's a line from Pirates of the Caribbean? I admittedly don't know much about how businesses and mergers work, so please forgive the vagueness.

The door is locked and the blinds are down. The clock on the wall above Damen’s desk suggests it’s far past a sensible hour.

He closes his eyes, inhales, and listens. Around and beneath him, the building quietens. The only sounds he hears with any certainty are the creak of leather beneath his legs, and the labored breaths that come in short gasps from the man sat between them.

Damen holds it in, this moment and all that it brings — the heady tension of the past few weeks is a heat in his chest. He lets it go, breathing a little quicker, a little heavier, as his hand seeks a rhythm.

The fan overhead is still spinning. The computer hushes itself to a hum. The light left in the room dims as somewhere, on the floors below, someone flicks the switch on their way out into the night.

 _Breathe,_ he thinks. _We’re alone, finally._ _In, out, then in again._

He can’t be sure there isn’t anyone lingering outside his office door, though he doubts it; he watched the rest of his department leave one by one at five, jackets slung over their shoulders, farewells tossed into the air. He watches the gap at the bottom of the door for movement or a suggestion of feet, but there’s no one.

There’s no one here. 

They’re quite alone.

_Good._

He presses his lips against soft skin, rubbed red by the brush of his stubble. He meant to shave this morning, but was in a rush — if he’d known how the work day would be ending, he might have permitted himself another minute or two to prepare.

“You’re being so quiet,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against that same skin, teeth against the other man’s jaw. “So cooperative.”

“Yes,” comes a shuddering moan, pressed against his mouth with nothing less than burning resentment. Damen sinks into the kiss, though it’s over in a moment — sweetness replaced with something far more familiar and bitter. Something he has become quite used to over the past few weeks. “A pity, really. If only you could make me moan.”

Damen grunts, pressing another kiss against Laurent’s mouth to silence him, right hand still wrapped around his cock. He has not yet relaxed into the reality that this is happening, that this really is Laurent with him on the couch in his office, seated in his lap and half-undressed, back pressed against his chest. Damen looks over Laurent’s shoulder, down along the fine lines and muscle of his body, his other hand free to work open the few remaining stubborn shirt buttons. His fingers trail across Laurent’s chest, dipping to trace the thin trail of hair beneath his navel.

_And then we go lower. Lower, lower, lightly._

Laurent gasps again and melts against Damen’s mouth, rising to meet his grip. Damen squeezes his thigh, pulling Laurent’s leg across his own. His chest rises and falls against Laurent's back, their breaths a ragged pattern that slips out of sync.

When Damen receives clients and prospective business partners, he likes to sit with them on this couch. They chat and laugh over coffee, toil through small talk about weather and politics until they reach the heart of the matter. It’s the couch Laurent has sat on several times over the course of their meetings thus far, discussing a potential merger between Akielos Ventures and the Vere corporation. Damen would sit at his desk, maintaining distance, afraid at first of what he thought was hostility between them.

He realizes now that it was always something more.

Tension. Anticipation. _Wanting._

Laurent would tear apart his proposals, his appearance fresh and his rebukes like acid, a taunting smile splayed across delicate features. Damen would attempt to reason, negotiate and cajole, spurred on by the knowledge of how important this acquisition would be for his company. How his father had told him, on more than one occasion, that they must be careful to build bridges with Vere, and not burn. _Their stocks are struggling, but we still need them more than they need us._ _Don't let them see that._ He must be careful not to frighten them off with his usual brutish approach.

Laurent, ice cold, eyes blue and unmoving. Afraid of nothing, Damen saw, that he could not one day overcome.

He's thought about this extensively. About touching Laurent in this way, knowing the feel of his lips on his own. He’s spent countless hours imagining how he’d charm Laurent into an after-hours meeting, getting him alone in his office after everyone else has gone home. About tempting him onto the couch with a kiss and undressing him slowly.

_Finally, finally, to see and to hold._

Since he first stepped foot in the building, Laurent has been the sum total of all thought in Damen’s head.

He slides his thumb — lightly, so lightly — along the length of Laurent’s cock. He enjoys the latest gasp this slightest of touches brings, the greedy roll of hips. Damen’s aware of his own need, painfully hard through his pants, pushing against Laurent’s ass.

But he’s not negotiating his own pleasure this evening. That can wait.

He leaves eager imprints of his teeth along Laurent’s jaw, his neck, his shoulder, unsure where to look and what to touch next. He wants all of him, all of _this_ , and he wants more of those achingly lovely sounds.

“Laurent,” he whispers, blond hair tickling his nose. “You are beautiful.”

That cruel mouth turns his way. There’s red darkening his cheeks and a glassy, gone aspect to his gaze. “Get on with it. I’ve somewhere to be.”

Damen permits himself another kiss, smiling into the viciousness.

_It’s rude to stare. Who raised you?  
_

Those were the first words Laurent spoke to him, almost a month ago now, as Damen stood open-mouthed, holding open his office door. He watched his counterpart — his next professional conquest — stride into the room flanked with representatives and assistants. If Laurent raised a hand they would fall at his feet, Damen knew. It was worship, and he was but the latest offering at this particular altar.

The negotiations were not to go smoothly. Everything Akielos offered, Vere disputed. Each offer made met with prickling disdain. Talks of shareholders, expectations, executives. There were others that Laurent could have delegated such dealings to, Damen was sure.

But Laurent likes to do things for himself.

 _He’s young,_ Theomedes said, on the day the proposal was made. _The_ _Vere corporation is precocious and foolhardy. He’ll surrender easily; we need only name our price._

Damen, with one hand between Laurent’s legs and the other now tangled in his hair, still has no idea what that price might be. It is, he suspects, a rare thing beyond value. He breathes in the scent of Laurent, a mix of sweetness and sharp, and allows himself one comforting thought.

_He came here tonight. He comes to the negotiations, still._

_When I call he answers, my name curling in his mouth like a threat._

He tears his eyes away from Laurent’s body long enough to take in the jumble of clothes on the floor — Laurent’s underwear, his belt, Damen’s tie. Damen revels in the earlier vision of Laurent’s hands, slipping his jeans down over his thighs and stepping out of them. Again he feels his cock straining against fabric, a tease of friction from Laurent’s shifting hips.

“I’m too busy to touch you tonight,” he mutters, words low and indistinct. Damen kisses each one of them away. “Next time.”

 _Next time,_ Damen marvels. He looks down over Laurent’s shoulder again and sees everything, all that he wants. All he might have. Each inch of him expert in keeping Damen awake at night, agonizing over their tempestuous meetings, each misinterpreted glance and wavering tone.

Damen suspects he might be off his game, perhaps even out of his depth entirely. In imagining this very scenario, he has been overthinking. He tries to pull himself out of his head, focusing on the sounds spiraling from Laurent’s mouth, desperate to know if he’s going too fast or too slow, if his hand wrapped around Laurent’s cock is enough, or if he ought to give more.

He’s never had to guess like this. He only ever has to look at a person to know.

But Laurent of Vere is a mystery, a conundrum. Damen's hand moves faster, wondering if he’s one that might never be resolved.

“Damen,” comes the next gasp, a rasp against his ear. _“Damen.”_

He takes this as an encouraging sign, passing his thumb over the head of Laurent’s cock again. It’s lovely and gratifying to hold, after hours of accumulated minutes lost to wondering how it might feel in his hand. He rubs gently against the tip, eliciting a shudder.

Perfect, that’s how it feels.

And he longs to give something perfect in return.

Laurent has his head against Damen’s chest, reaching up to kiss along his jaw. He grips Laurent harder, increasing the pace, a moan escaping his own mouth as he feels precome beading beneath his fingers. Laurent starts to rock under his hands, hips rising and stuttering as he tries to match Damen’s rhythm.

“I want to come,” Laurent says, one of many petulant demands he’s made since negotiations began, though Damen prefers this over any other. Their meeting this morning was a disaster — Theomedes berated him for an hour over the phone afterwards. _If anything, Damianos, you have set us back!_

He’d called Laurent immediately to apologize. _Come to dinner with me tomorrow, and we can discuss our options. Stop by my office this evening and I'll give you the updated paperwork._

“I want you to come,” he murmurs now, his hand moving quicker, his grip tighter. _I do, I do want that._ _I want you._

_Surrender, surrender._

Laurent’s kisses are a mess against Damen’s mouth as he melts further, hand snaking up around the back of Damen's neck. He lets the last defenses crumble, hips pushing up into Damen’s hand. Damen reaches to touch Laurent’s chest, to palm across his stomach, thumb dancing over a jut of hipbone and the curves of softer skin surrounding.

He wants this. He wanted it this morning, when Laurent strolled into his office in tight black jeans, instead of anything approaching professional attire. His long hair was tied loosely over one shoulder, and Damen imagined himself running his fingers through it, working knots into silk.

Damen wanted it last week when Laurent sat in the conference room, one leg draped elegantly over the other, his shirt lacy and expression arrogant. He sat perfectly still, back straight and arms folded, mouth a crease of consternation as Damen bumbled through yet another failed presentation. A shy flick of eyelashes, a stain of pink that left Damen wondering _what if, what if, what if._

He wanted it the moment they met properly, Damen standing to reach across his desk to shake Laurent’s hand. _Damianos,_ Nikandros said from the doorway, perhaps already resigned to the fate that awaited his friend. All Damen knew was the crushing reality of blond hair, hooded blue eyes, an expanse of creamy skin from wrist to fingertip. _This is Laurent de Vere, of the Vere corporation. He’ll be attending the business meetings with you._

 _My equivalent_ , he remembers thinking then. _My equal_.

Laurent in the lobby, trading ribald jokes with representatives.

Laurent waiting for the elevator, flirting obliquely with one of Damen’s interns.

Laurent marching into Damen’s office this morning, already refuting Akielos’s latest offer, a knowing smirk on his lips.

Damen has thought in grave detail about how lovely he might look, bent over his desk and desperate. Undressed on the client couch, legs falling open for him.

But he hadn’t truly thought he’d ever be there. That he might have Laurent in this way, for himself.

He had only been half-joking on the phone earlier. _After five tonight, the building will be empty. Everyone leaves early on Fridays. I’ll have the new offer for you — you can take it home, look it over at the weekend. Look it over before dinner tomorrow, tell your brother about it._ There had been no reaction or acceptance, no suggestion of what was to come.

But at five o’ clock, Damen’s secretary had called from downstairs, on her wait out the door.

_Damianos, Vere corporation here to see you. The pouty blond. He says you’re expecting him — should I send him up?_

And now here they are, Laurent yielding between his legs, eyes closed and throat bared, exposing the jut of his Adam’s apple. Damen bends to kiss him there and lick a line along his neck, his strokes coming faster now, urging Laurent to an inevitable conclusion.

 _Tell me something good,_ Laurent had insisted as he entered the office, his top button undone and a glint in his eye Damen mistook for violence. He watched as the office door was closed and then quite deliberately locked. _Tell me something good, Damianos, and we’ll speak of surrender._

Damen can’t remember what he said. No doubt there were invented statistics, a delirious slice of good fortune, a reason why Laurent absolutely _must_ agree to the merger and allow Akielos Ventures to guide Vere to new heights. The words were just words and little more, though they must have done the trick, because Laurent had already begun walking backwards towards the couch, hands fumbling with his belt buckle. There was a brief moment, a sliver of hesitation wherein Damen thought perhaps Laurent _hadn't_ done this before—other offices, other locked doors, other men. He meant to ask but then Laurent's jeans were down around his ankles, and Damen couldn't say then what a question even was.

He _does_ know he thought about kissing him first. Damen was moving around his desk in an instant, disbelieving, hands reaching to cup Laurent's face. He considered it might be proper to kiss a prospective business partner before sex — and then he’d stepped behind Laurent, falling onto the couch and pulling him down into his lap. His skin, bronze against marble, sliding along Laurent’s taut abdomen and inside the waistband of his briefs.

Laurent was already hard. He told Damen to make him come and be efficient about it, because he had prior dinner reservations and an early start in the morning. Damen could pick him up tomorrow night at eight — not a moment before, and if he was late, the entire deal was off.

They’ve found middle ground now as they move together, somewhere between Laurent’s rushed determination and Damen’s desire to luxuriate — Laurent moans into his mouth, a wicked and delightful refrain as Damen watches his hand move between Laurent’s legs, his cock sleek and pretty, easily the best result of today’s endless tedium of figures and charts.

And he’d like to see more, he realises. He _would_ like to see Laurent at ( _on_ ) his desk, or backed up against the blinds. He wants Laurent to sit with him in his high-backed chair, mouth coaxing secrets, the week’s reports a neglected burden. He’d like to see him revealed beneath him on this very couch, legs wrapped around Damen’s waist, blond hair curling like question marks above his head.

He thinks about touching him, about taking the lubricant from his desk drawer and pressing a finger inside him, just enough to tip Laurent over the edge. But he’ll have to hope there’s another of these negotiations ahead — that Laurent will dispute the new report, perhaps, and they’ll end tomorrow night as sweetly.

Laurent twists his neck, lips finding Damen’s again, names and curses and gasps passed between them like missives. And then Laurent’s coming at last, his cock pulsing and spilling in Damen’s hand, his own name a new refrain that he’ll hearing in his head much later tonight, when he’s staring at the ceiling and failing to sleep.

“Damen,” Laurent says softly as Damen strokes him through it, his grip loosening. “Damianos.”

“Laurent, oh —”

And then before the moment might unravel further, Laurent is coming back to himself, pushing Damen’s hands away and leaning forward, looking back over his shoulder. He smirks, red splashed across his cheeks, his mouth, his neck. Damen settles his hands, hot and sticky, on Laurent’s bare hips, but he’s already fastening his shirt buttons, scanning the carpet for his discarded clothes.

“Tissues,” he says, clearing his throat. “Might I expect such civility?”

Damen reaches across the small gap between the couch and glass coffee table, passing a box of tissues to Laurent. Damen doesn’t clean himself off — his hands return possessively to Laurent’s hips.

“Should I ask for an evaluation?” Damen asks, coy for the first time in his life. He watches the stretch of Laurent’s shoulders, the shift of his spine through his shirt as he wipes off his stomach, balling the tissues and tossing them into the waste paper basket. “Maybe tomorrow evening, if you need to think about it? If you have time during the day, we could hold a meeting here. At my desk.”

 _Or on it,_ he won’t say. With anyone else he would — he'd relax into the charm that's taken him to innumerable places with countless people. Whenever he wants, whoever he wants it with.

But this is different. This time he feels differently, so he holds the words back.

Laurent graces him with a careless shrug, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “Do you always work on Saturdays?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “Is that it?” Damen is left cursing his sudden stumbling confidence. “No clever remarks or vicious verdict?”

Laurent turns and bites his lip, a thing of such savage beauty that it makes Damen’s heart flutter. _Funny_ _,_ Damen thinks, admonishing himself. _Funny what our hearts know that we don't._

“I have a verdict for you right now.”

Laurent bends over to retrieve his jeans, giving Damen a perfect view of exactly where he’d like to be tonight, if he could only remember his own name — if he were half of who he usually is.

A whisper of lips brushing his own, a hand cupping his cheek.

Laurent whispers into his ear one consolatory word: “Adequate.”

And then he’s in the doorway looking like he’s won a war, hair loose and ruffled, lips soft with faded kisses. There's a folder under his arm, the new report Damen had left on his desk: _VERE_ _CORPORATION,_ printed in optimistic capitals.

“What now?” Damen asks, as Laurent’s eyes caress him appreciatively, from head to toe.

“Touch yourself,” Laurent says, as if reaching the day’s one firm conclusion. “Surrender, Damianos.” It’s a demand, Damen understands — his last of the day. Laurent’s eyes linger, for a moment, on Damen’s pants. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

He leaves in a rush, fastening his belt and retying his hair. He exits the office in a whirl of drying sweat and spiced cologne, shirt half-undone, and he doesn’t spare Damen another glance as he goes.

In the aftermath of everything Damen sits in the dark, counting his own breaths as they regulate, returning him to his body. His hands are in his lap; he can smell Laurent on them, the proof that he was _here_ , in Damen’s arms, on this couch.

 _Adequate_ , he thinks, feeling the uncomfortable strain of his erection. It’s the first of many pressing matters he’ll need to see to before he can leave the office tonight.

He crosses to his desk and lowers himself delicately into his chair.

_Adequate._

_I'll see you tomorrow._

The light on his phone is blinking — no doubt there are messages from corporate on there, demanding an update. _Don’t worry,_ Damen thinks. _Negotiations are still very much underway. Bridges built and not yet burning._

He shuffles papers, checks the time, reads over his schedule for tomorrow morning. He suffers a vivid fantasy of how lovely Laurent would look on his knees under his desk, his wicked tongue working over Damen’s cock while he worked the day’s numbers.

He sighs, defeated. There’ll be little sleep tonight, and what does come will not be restful.

He unzips his pants and conjures the feel of Laurent’s skin beneath his hands, the velvet slide of his cock in Damen’s palm, the gasps that had passed between their lips.

He rests his head against the back of his chair and ardently hopes the cleaners have gone home for the night. An interruption would _not_ be welcome. His squeezes his own hip and imagines it’s Laurent there behind him, guiding him to his rhythm.

And he knows he’ll have work to do for when they meet at dinner, tomorrow. Damen intends to pass this next test of proficiency with flying colors.

There’s a name on his lips as he meets the day’s last demand, and it’s a sting, an echo in his head.

 _Laurent,_ he thinks. _Laurent._

In the dark of his office, Damen surrenders the day.


End file.
